


struck twice

by boleynqueens



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Magic Realism, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You took pride in being the handsomest prince in Christendom. You drank in the beauty of the world, of the people around you (only to destroy it and them). Now you may not do either."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hope is a flightless bird

**Author's Note:**

> "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;  
> I lift my lids and all is born again.  
> (I think I made you up inside my head.)  
> The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,  
> And arbitrary blackness gallops in:  
> I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead."  
> \--Sylvia Plath
> 
> "Of his musical family, Henry VIII was probably the most gifted. He played numerous instruments: the lute, the organ and other keyboards; recorders, the flute and the harp, and he had a good singing voice. Henry wrote a number of compositions, the most famous probably ‘Pastime with Good Company’, although, disappointingly, probably not ‘Greensleeves’ which is later in date." -- Emma Mason, HistoryExtra
> 
> "Music from a songbook believed to have belonged to Henry VIII's second wife Anne Boleyn has been performed for the first time in 500 years. The songbook disappeared five centuries ago and has only recently been discovered." http://www.itv.com/news/2015-09-14/music-from-anne-boleyns-songbook-performed-for-first-time-in-500-years/

> **From: AnneOrmonde@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> **To: MargaretSavoy@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> **Sent January 5, 2016, Monday, 7:09 PM**
> 
> The "opportunity" sounds a little too good to be true, honestly. I don't think I've ever heard of someone requesting a student to play for them privately, much less alone. Unless it's a music therapy session or something.
> 
> And for that much for a pension? For a weekly visit?
> 
> It's just…it's not that I don't trust you, Margaret, you know I do, but I can't help but think it's weird!
> 
> **From: MargaretSavoy@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> **To: AnneOrmonde@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> He's one of our biggest patrons.
> 
> He is a bit…weird, or odd, but only because he's very reclusive. He doesn't come to any of our symphonies in person, just requests recordings.
> 
> But it's nothing untoward, I can assure you of that.
> 
> **From: AnneOrmonde@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> I'm not allowed to know his name? You haven't mentioned it yet.
> 
> **From: MargaretSavoy@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> He's an anonymous patron. Extremely private, like I said. Even I don't know his name, truthfully.
> 
> **From: AnneOrmonde@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> That's…even more weird. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it.
> 
> **From: MargaretSavoy@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> I understand, I just don't want you to reject the opportunity on impulse and regret it.
> 
> Sometimes patrons like this end up sponsoring musicians individually, you know. Opportunities like this can lead to other ones.
> 
> Listen, how about we grab coffee together tomorrow morning? I can go into more details in person. If you're still unsure after that, I'll leave you alone. Promise.

* * *

  **January**

**Day 1**

"When do I meet him?" Anne asks, hand resting against the folder of sheet music on the marble counter top of the island.

Thomas Cromwell, who introduced himself as the manager of the estate, sits across from her, hands folded politely.

"Oh, well," he replies, brushing his bangs from hazel eyes, "you won't. He'll be sitting behind…a confessional screen. Near the piano you'll be using."

"A confessional screen?" she asks, brow furrowing, "Was this house remodeled from a church, or something?"

"Oh, no," Cromwell says, laughing, waving a hand, then, more solemnly, "it's because...my employer's father was rather ill in the last few months of his life."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Anne says, quietly, runs her fingers over the cold condensation on her glass of ice water. She traces the outline of a heart, discomfort swelling in her chest, fluttering in her throat.

"He was Catholic. And he wasn't mobile, near the end, so he had it built in. And his priest visited him, here, privately, for confessions."

"I see. Am I allowed to…talk to him, then?"

The concept strikes her as strange; the delineation between listener and musician being so starkly drawn reminds her of a classism reminiscent of monarchs and their court musicians. _Perhaps this anonymous patron thinks he's superior_ , she thinks, coolly, as she takes in the huge window beyond Cromwell, the view of the rose garden outside.

The petals flutter in the breeze, their rich color vibrant against the grey of the heavy, humid sky above. 

It's a house big enough to require an "estate manager", certainly, or to be called an 'estate' at all…she supposes that means 'house' is too small a title. She had been driven from Orpheus University in a town car Margaret had told her would be sent over; sat in the back and not bothered with small talk.

The entrance gate was huge, overgrown with foliage and ivy, and the driveway up to the estate had been long and winding.

After the driver dropped her off at the front entrance, its doors tall and black; covered in gilt designs embellished in gold swirls reminiscent of a fairy tale, Cromwell had been the one to answer the door.

"Ah…" Cromwell grimaces, before lifting his own glass off the coaster, and drinks before continuing, "he didn't specify, but he's rather reticent. So I assume not."

"Then…forgive me, but I don't understand how I'm supposed to know what to play. Did he specify that?"

"No, he said that was to be your choice. You brought music, I assume--"

"Yes," Anne says, curtly, lifting her folder, "of course."

"Perfect. Do you require anything else, then, before we--"

"No," she says, gripping her glass before sliding off the chair, "the water's fine."

* * *

The piano in the living room is the longest concert grand piano Anne's ever seen, and she's played on quite a few. Dozens, probably, spanning from her childhood protégé years to her high school ones, from competitions to her audition for Orpheus and all the concerts and classes thereafter.

Four legs end in gold wheels. It's ten feet wide along the sounding board, made of red spruce wood. The lifted top reflects the strings inside, glossy enough to reflect them. The side with the keyboard is five feet (Anne giggles at the thought that her own height surpasses it by a few scant inches).

Anne her hands over the black keys, smooth and made of ebony wood, then white keys, which are  non-reflective (a sign of higher quality).

There's a note card on the spot for sheet music that she lifts and reads:

> _"From the left to the right: Sustain,Tonal,soft (una corda),[ Fourth pedal invented by Fazioli](http://www.fazioli.com/en/pianoforti/model/f308): allows the pianist to turn down the volume without modifying the timbre."_

Anne sets her folder down next to the note card before turning to slide her glass onto a coaster on the round table near the piano.

She trails a finger along the vinyl cushion of the mahogany bench, and lifts her gaze to the confessional screen.

It seems to be made of mahogany as well, tight flower patterns like whorls reveal tiny holes in the surface. She squints and can see dim lighting beyond the screen, can make out the figure of a person sitting inside, but can't make out any discernible features.

_Who sits in the dark?_

Anne sits on the bench and starts to play warm-ups, scales, tests the pedals with her feet. She shuffles through the sheet music she brought and settles on a soothing piece. It's a crowd pleaser, really, so _hopefully it'll please whatever odd individual sits behind the wall, silent_.

She plays slowly, almost as slowly as the tutorial YouTube she watched for the song, waiting for him to say…something..

Anne's on the crescendo, now, the ascending notes that move into something faster, taking flight, her favorite part of any piece. The interlude is always where her hands are most sure and deft, confident, she loves the build that leads to it and the way it swells.

For _[River Flows In You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsTjI75uEUQ)_ , this happens about a minute into the song, and she's pushing her shoulders into it, feeling her stride, making the beautiful transition with her right hand (A, B, B _b_ , A, A _b_ , A…)  when:

"Play something else."

She lifts her hand off the keyboard, in the very same way she learned from her first lesson ( _like you're holding a crystal globe and don't want it to break_ ), and glares at the wooden screen.

The voice was smooth, but with an edge, like a river running over stones; a lilting, musical quality to it. He has a foreign accent of some sort, although she's not sure what kind yet.

"I'm sorry," Anne says, not bothering to keep the irritation out of her voice, "did I make an error, or--"

"No," he says, "you play beautifully. Just like you did on the CD's I listened to. It's just too…hopeful. Play a different piece…please."

"What's wrong with hope?" she asks, playing a scale, using the rare fourth pedal to do so quietly.

"Hope is a flightless bird," he answers, and _oh, the accent's British_ , she makes it out on the way he pronounces the word 'hope'.

"Meaning?"

"It promises that you'll soar, but leaves you on the ground. Play something else."

"Well," Anne says, putting the sheet music back into her folder, " _that's_ a shit reason."

"Alright," he says, chuckling, "fine. I'll elaborate. Music is…catharsis. Do you agree, Miss Ormonde?"

She bristles at the reminder that he knows her name and she doesn't know his, the condescension of the 'Miss' (it _could_ be meant as respect, she supposes, but all she reads is condescension from both his tone and what she's gleaned from this conversation so far).

"Yes," Anne admits, sulkily, placing the sheet music back into the folder.

"Right, so, music is catharsis. Hope needs no catharsis. The grief that results from hope failing you…does. Pain does. Melancholy does. Play me something that gives those things a voice. Please."

She sighs, tries to find a song devoid of hope within the pages she brought, and finds one.

This time she doesn't even make it to the interlude, [barely makes it past the intro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zw-TunHUhQ) before:

"Better…but not one that's so overplayed."

_You're a recluse, so how would you know?_

It _has_ been on the Top 40 stations for longer than most songs should be, but _still_.

"'So overplayed'? What, you listen to the radio?"

"Yes, of course. Why does that surprise you?"

"You don’t seem the type."

"I listen to it when I drive…or, I did. I listen to it _while_ I'm being driven."

"Right. Okay. Let me find something else, then," Anne says, rolling her eyes as she tucks the sheets for _Say Something_ away, too.

"Thank you."

She finds a more difficult song (well, save for the first verse, given that every starting note is E flat on the right hand) and starts to play that, instead.

Anne [plays this piece faster than the others](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-j55Z9yZprY), thinking that maybe if she powers through it he won't find anything wrong with it…but her irritation starts to melt away, and she starts to feel the music, instead.

The ascent and descents, the climbs and falls…this song has a lot of them. But all you have to do is listen to know it's a song about an ending, not a beginning.

There's no hope in it; only acceptance of how things fall away from you. Only an acceptance of how some people can't be rescued.

She finishes, then leans back in her seat.

"What was that one called?"

"' _Losing Your Memory_ '," Anne says, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her dress before folding them.

"Fitting title. A good choice, thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, fidgeting with her hands.

"Do you sing, Miss Ormonde?"

"I… _can_. I prefer not to."

"And why's that?"

"Bad memories."

"Ah…I know all about those. No singing, then. Do you read?"

"Do I _read_?" she asks, incredulously.

"Read aloud, I mean."

"I…sure. I can read aloud. Why?"

"It's good for musicians to feel the shape of words as they pass through them. We feel this with notes, in our instruments, but the notes don't carry as much weight if we don't attach them to words in our mind. Or feelings, or words _with_ feelings. And the voice is the one universal instrument. You carry it with you everywhere. It's good to learn how to use it effectively."

"What would you like me to read?"

"Whatever you'd like. I'm curious to know what a mind as bright as yours considers worthy of being shared."

"How about you _tell me_ ," Anne says, tersely, "so that I know for next time. You gave me free rein today and then seemed to regret it. Given that you were so _unsatisfied_ with my first two choices."

"You sound upset," he says, lightly, "but you're the one that played me elevator music."

" _Excuse_ \--"

"Skillfully _and_ flawlessly played elevator music, of course," he says, quickly, "but elevator music, nonetheless."

* * *

**Day 2**

"Is Cromwell the only person that lives here?" Anne asks as she makes a note in pencil on her sheet (he had requested the last four measures in _mezzo-piano_ rather than _forte_ ).

"Well, _I_ live here."

Anne resists the urge to bang her head against the piano.

"Yes, I know. I meant--"

"I have other staff, yes. It's only because…I require a lot of assistance. If I didn't, I'd probably live alone."

"Oh. Why do you--"

"Play it again, please."

_Right_.

* * *

**Day 4**

Anne sits on a red velvet couch besides the confessional screen, her book propped on her lap, so that he can better hear her (the acoustics in the room are good, of course, but a conversation is easier this way).

She's played about half an hour of piano for him already, taken a break, and returned with her poem in hand.

The last two days have gone smoothly, the routine seems settled already: piano, critique, reading, analysis.

Cromwell escorts her inside, and Anne talks to someone that won't show his face. Observes the portraits on the wall, the vases full of flowers, the tapestries, and wonders if they're his, if this grand house always had such a peculiar owner.

> _"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;_
> 
> _I lift my lids and all is born again_
> 
> _(I think I made you up inside my head)."_

"Sylvia Plath?" he asks, softly.

"Yes. You know it?"

"I remember it. It held some…significance for me, a decade ago."

"Which part?"

"The part you just read. 'I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead'…happened. 'I lift my lids and all is born again'…didn't, but I wished it did."

_Whatever that means_.

"The third line is…parentheses, if I recall, no?"

"Yes," Anne says, running her index under it, "it is."

"Why do you think that is?"

"In class, we learned it was just a stylistic choice. The same line, in parentheses, is written three more times."

"Do you think that's all it is, Miss Ormonde? A stylistic choice?"

"It could be. Or it's written that way because it's…not important. An afterthought."

"We don't usually write down what's unimportant, though, do we?

"Well, then, maybe it's written that way because it's something…she doesn’t want to admit to herself. That she made this up. It's called 'Mad Girl's Love Song', so…"

"I like that better, I think. Continue."

> _"The stars go waltzing out in blue and red_
> 
> _And arbitrary blackness gallops in:_
> 
> _I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead."_

"What a strange phrase," he says, "for falling asleep. 'All the world drops dead'…as if your point of view is the only thing that makes people exist at all--"

"I can't do this," Anne says, abruptly, putting the book down on the couch, "I'm sorry, I can't, this is…too weird."

"I don't think my commentary is _that_ off the mark," he says, sounding bemused, "but--"

"I feel crazy! I feel like I'm talking to a ghost!"

"Maybe you are."

"Like I'm…schizophrenic, and you're the voice in my head…"

"Maybe I am."

"You're not funny!"

" _I'm_ laughing."

"Yes, I _know_ ," she snaps, hitting the wood of the screen with the back of her hand, which seems to just make him laugh more, "but I'm not, I don't…I can't _see_ you, and I don't even know your name!"

"Well, I have my reasons for both."

"And I suppose I can't know those, either?"

_Radio silence…of course_.

She's tired of only hearing cryptic phrases, listening to this man that seems to only speak in riddles and _the whole thing just irks her._

Anne doesn't know why she _cares_ so much, knows she should just take what he pays her and be grateful that her new college job doesn't involve scraping dishes, but…she can’t let it go.

It's only her fourth day here and she feels like she's had about all she can take. She's hit her quota for weirdness.

"I don't think you'd understand," he says, finally.

"Try me."

"It takes a lot of work for me to…make myself visible. Presentable. You're beautiful, so I don't think you'd understand."

"How do _you_ know? Can you see me through the screen?" she demands, miffed, "because if you _can_ , that's _really_ not fair…"

"No," he says, laughing, "no, I can't see you…through the screen."

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

"What does that _mean_? That little pause? That little emphasis? Don’t think I didn't catch that."

"Pardon?"

"'I can't see you'," Anne mocks, in a deep timbre, "'……….. _through the screen_.' Please. Give me a fucking break, what are you trying to…do you have cameras up, or something?"

"No, trust me, I don't--"

"I have no reason to trust you," she says coolly, grabbing her book from the couch, she stands and grabs her purse as well, "given that I don't get to talk to you face to face, and given that that's really the best way to judge if someone's lying or telling the truth! Given that your name is apparently some national secret, Rumpelstiltskin level bullshit …and I figured this was too good to be true anyway, so you know what? It's fine."

Anne storms out of the living room, and through the house until she reaches the front doors.

She calls the hired driver and stands on the stone steps outside, before choosing one of them to sit down on.

The sun warms her legs as she waits and she pulls her knees to her chest.

"Miss Ormonde?" Cromwell calls.

Anne turns, looks up at the older man, the little worry lines on his forehead drawn tighter, the grey within the black of his hair prominent (he looks like he's in his thirties, but she could understand how working for 'his employer' may have sped up the aging process).

"Yes?"

"Are you ill?"

"No. I just want to go home," she says, turning her back to him.

"I see…did you tell--"

"No, I did not tell He Who Must Not Be Named. Why don't you tell him yourself? That's _your_ job, right?" she asks, snidely, pulling her denim clad knees closer to her chest, she plays with a loose thread on one of the holes of her jeans.

"I certainly will…I assume you won't be returning?"

"You assume correctly."

* * *

> **From: ThomasCromwell@plantagenet.net**
> 
> **To: AnneOrmonde@orpheusuniversity.edu**
> 
> **Sent January 15, 2016, Friday**
> 
> Miss Ormonde,
> 
> My employer has asked me to express apologies, on his behalf, regarding your discomfort.
> 
> He believes he can accommodate your requests, and agrees to share his name and "clarify matters" at a set time for another session.
> 
> If you are amenable to this, please send a list of available dates and I will coordinate schedules accordingly.
> 
> Warm regards,
> 
> Thomas Cromwell
> 
> **Office Contact: (710) 417-1540**

* * *

**Day 5**

Anne takes her hair down from its ponytail, looks at her reflection in the antique bathroom mirror as she does.

She twirls its dark waves around her hands, letting it spill past her shoulders, and then stops, hand in mid-air.

Anne shakes her head, pulls her hair back into the hair band, loops the tie over a ponytail again, twice. Checks the creases of the peter-pan collar of her blue dress, and turns to open the door.

* * *

She scans the living room as she enters, the clusters of couches and armchairs and ottomans and settees. There are some pieces that she thinks used to be called "fainting couches" in Victorian times, covered in lavender damask and throws.

There's a man sitting on the armchair in front of an unlit gas fireplace. Anne looks at him, from his feet upwards, vertically.

His long legs are sprawled, his right ankle crossed over his left knee, a large clipboard splayed against it. A white cane rests against his knee. His hands, clothed in fingerless gloves, move across a page with no type or print that she can see.

Iridescent buttons line up his silk, violet shirt all the way up to the smooth hollow of his throat. The fabric strains tightly against the musculature and width of his shoulders.

The half of his face not covered by a mask, sculpted carefully to the contours of his cheekbones, is stunning, his nose large and aquiline, his eyes are framed by long lashes large and…vacant. _Not tranquil, but vacant_. A strand of dark auburn hair falls over his left eye, partially obscuring it, but his gaze is fixed straight ahead while his fingers still move across the page.

"Miss Ormonde?" he asks, as his hands still.

_No, I can't see you…through the screen._


	2. lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you unfamiliar with Greek mythology? That's ironic…I'd assume a school called Orpheus required at least an introductory course on the subject."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom, or indifference over his inward joy.” -- Gaston Leroux

**January**

**Day 5**

"Alright," he says, tapping his hand over the edge of the table ( _feeling for it?_ Anne assumes, she knows what the white cane means, has seen it before) before easing the clipboard over it, "make the joke, let's get it out of the way."

"Um…"

Anne purses her mouth, wets her lips, and clears her throat before asking:

"What?"

He laughs, then taps two digits, twice, against the mask.

"The musical. Make the comment, and then we can move on."

"Oh…um…Phantom of--"

" _Phantom of the Opera_ , yes," he says, folding his hands against his stomach, "although, in the original novel by Leroux, it was a full mask. And you could see the entirety of his skull underneath his skin. I believe they changed it to the half mask in the adaptation so that viewers could more easily see his expressions…important for acting, I assume."

Anne slides her hands over her mouth. Stares at him, unabashedly, because… _he can't tell, right?_

"A full mask would make it rather difficult to sing, too, I imagine," he continues, the fingers of his right hand now drumming against the knuckles on his left.

"You're…"

He raises his eyebrows (or…she _guesse_ s that he raises both, given that the left side of his face is covered in the mask, glossy, made of what material she's not certain, although the color and hardness of it reminds her of obsidian), the line of his sight ( _well, lack thereof, where his sight would be…his eyes? the direction they're pointed, at any rate_ ) facing the spot to the left of her.

"I'm…?" he asks, smirking, the fingers on his right hand now fluttering against his left so quickly that they blur.

"You're. Um….you're…"

"You can say it," he says, separating his hands, he places an elbow against the arm rest, leans his head against his hand, "it's not a bad word."

_Beautiful?_

_No…that's probably not it._

_Don't say that._

He is, though. In every detail that she can view, he is. It's beauty that goes beyond physical appearance; it's more than the clarity and smoothness of his skin, it's the intensity and danger, the charisma and gravitas that hums underneath it, falling against her in waves. Beauty that goes beyond the size of his gloved hands, the length of his fingers (pianist's, through and through); beyond his height and body, it lies in the kinetic nature of it, instead, the way he can't seem to sit still.

That's what's stunning her, affecting her speech.

She's been in his presence, before, of course, technically. Heard the coyness, the hypnotic quality of his voice, soft and gentle. She's been closer to him in this, in distance, actually, chair to chair pressed against a wooden screen, his voice almost right in her ear. Right now she stands several feet from him, arms crossed, as his voice carries across the room. But seeing him and hearing him simultaneously is… _different_.

Leading men in movies, James Bond, superheroes, all have the gravely, deep tone…it's considered masculine and strong, for some reason. His is on the higher-pitched end of the spectrum, higher than some women's, in fact, but the dulcet and rich tone of it is still…strong.

Or maybe it's merely that it has a strong effect.

His other hand grasps the white cane, he runs it up and down the length of it, eyebrow still raised.

"You're…blind," she says, finally though faintly, then, "were you…always?"

"Yes, and no."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" he teases, "are you Zeus?"

"I don't…what?"

"Are you unfamiliar with Greek mythology? That's ironic…I'd assume a school called Orpheus required at least an introductory course on the subject."

"I know who Zeus is," Anne says, rolling her eyes, "I just don't what it has to do with…the god of all gods, and--"

"And what else?"

"The god of storms, thunder, lightning…"

His mouth, chapped and full, neutrally rested during her rattling off of trivia, twitches upwards on the last uttered word, his hand clenches over the cane.

"Lightning?" she asks, again, puzzled, and he nods, once.

"You were…struck by lightning?"

"No."

The surrounding air feels as fraught with electricity as the subject matter, Anne winces, tugs at a lock of hair that's come loose from the ponytail.

"I was struck by lightning…twice."

 "Oh, I," Anne looks at her feet, she's not sure why she's stammering her words, she's usually eloquent (she's never had a problem speaking to him before, but that was back when he was just a disembodied voice, _and maybe it's looking at him that's making it hard to talk_ , and _oh, he doesn't know she's being rude because he can't see her bent head_ ), "I, I didn't know that was…possible."

"Just lucky, I guess."

Anne walks towards him, slowly, one foot in front of the other, arms still crossed.

"I must've done something to anger God…to incur such wrath, doubly…I've always thought that. I'm not sure what. The crimes of my youth were…petty, small. Perhaps it was something in a past life, gods instead of…"

He stops and tilts his chin upwards, gaze towards the ceiling. Stands up, leaving his cane behind, resting against the chair, and circles around, head still tilted upwards.

"What are you doing?" Anne asks, as he spins around, neck still craned to the high ceiling of the room.

"Waiting for my grandmother to descend from the heavens and smite me for even implying any legitimacy to paganism."

"Pardon?"

"She was _intensely_ Catholic…a nun, basically. Minus the habit and plus the marriages to men…see her?" he asks, playfully, lowering his head back down, he runs his hand in a line, flat, in the air, from his left to right shoulder, "She'd be about…nay tall, white hair, mouth pursed like she just bit into a lemon wedge? No? Ah well…"

"Is this what you meant by clarifying matters?"

"More or less," he says, pats the front of his pocket, "you said it was easier to tell if someone was telling the truth if you saw them, and… _I've_ never found that to be true, but here I am. Ask what you'd like."

"What's your name?"

"Henry," he answers, pulling a handkerchief out of the pocket of his slacks.

"You don't have a surname?" Anne asks, hands over her elbows, arms resting against her waist.

 "I _do_. But I _don't_ ," Henry says, smiling as he twiststhe handkerchief, embroidered in roses, through his hand, "want you to use those deft little fingers of yours to search and find the whole tragic story on the Internet. So. Henry, for now."

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's weird that you call me Miss Ormonde and I'm supposed to call you…Henry. Given the professional roles, it'd usually be reversed. And it's a little overly familiar, besides."

"I don't mind. Anything else?"

_'I don't mind'. Well, I do._

"How did you know it was me?"

"When you walked in?"

Anne nods.

Henry dabs his neck with his handkerchief. His eyes, grey like the feathers of a dove, remain level and straight ahead. It unnerves her, the way the pupils don't react to the light that shifts through the stained glass window behind him, even as she sees it play across the expanse of his face. It's not as though pupil dilation is something she's ever noticed particularly, _of course_. Rather, just something she's accustomed to without realizing she's…used to it.

She waits for him to respond; feeling more and more uncomfortable as the silence stretches on.

"Did you…nod?" he finally asks, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

"Oh my _God_ ," she groans, covering her face with her hands, "I'm sorry!"

"It's been known to happen…ah…an inference, a process of elimination. Which is how I glean most of what I know."

"Based on what?"

"Well, your footsteps, for starters."

"You recognize _my footsteps_?"

"Yes. By now I do. Then, your perfume. No one on my staff wears it, so…"

"I don’t wear perfume."

" _Oh_ ," Henry says, tugging at the collar of his shirt, "well, those two things combined with the fact that I knew I didn't have an appointment with any other guest, and that if one had showed up unexpectedly, Cromwell would have notified me. That you couldn't be an intruder, given that I have incredible security. And then, of course, your voice confirmed your identity."

"Why did you say what you said about my appearance, the last day I was here, if you can't…um…" she fumbles, not sure what's too impolite to say, although he doesn't seem very unnerved or offended, she's still deathly afraid of putting her foot in her mouth.

"See? Inference, again. The usual, like I said."

"Based on _what_?" she asks, rubbing her temple with her hand.

There's a painting on the wall behind him, white roses intertwined with red, the petals of the flowers brush the top of the frame. Anne squints, sees outlines of shapes in the background of it, some faint white color that stands out against the dark green, though she can't make it out from the distance.

"The steadiness of your footsteps suggests confidence, surety. As does the evenness of your voice."

"Confidence can be rooted in things other than beauty," Anne says, crossing her arms again, rubbing one hand against it (the A/C is always on rather high, but the half of his forehead she can see is dewy with sweat…she has a jacket that she left in the kitchen, but she doesn't really want to get it at the moment).

"And I'm sure yours is. Still. I have a studied ear, heightened other…senses. I'm sure I'd be proven correct if I tested the inference, but…"

Henry shrugs a single shoulder, turns around, bends and grabs his cane before walking towards the piano.

Anne hears it tap against the floor and follows him.

"So you don't know," she says, stuck on this (uncertain as to _why_ she can't let it go, all Anne knows is that she _can't_ ), "what I look like, actually. You're just guessing."

"I'm right," Henry says, seeming equally stubborn, he sits on the armchair nearest the piano and nods towards it.

Anne sits on the bench, smoothing her skirt over her knees, and says, "You don't _know_ that, though."

"I _know_ ," he says, smugly, with a smirk, cane grasped in his hand, still, "play something, please. We're done, aren't we? With the questions?"

"How would you 'test it'?"

Henry sighs, rolls his eyes, which startles her (except, _well_ …she supposes he remembers how to do that, the exasperation it means, he wasn't born blind, he had told her, although not the age of which the blindness developed), running a hand through his hair, on the masked side of his face.

 "I'd feel your face," he says, then, with a dismissive wave of his other hand, "touch your hair, et cetera, which is terribly invasive, of course, so I'm sure you don't--"

"Do it."

"I can't," Henry says, lightly, hands folded together now, twiddling his thumbs, "so…play someth--"

"You know what? I'm not a circus monkey," she snaps, her hands squeezing the vinyl edges of the bench so tightly they hurt, "and I guess I shouldn't have come, because you seem to think I--"

"Of course you're not-- I'm sorry. Just…to do that, I'd have to take off my gloves."

"So?"

"And I don't want…I don't show my hands. To anyone I don't know."

_What?_

_Also: who counts as people you know?_

"So I'll _close my eyes_ ," she says, slowly.

"And I have no way to know if they are," he explains, "so--"

"Miss Ormonde?"

Anne turns her head, sees Cromwell in the entryway, her sweater in his hand.

"I believe you left this," he says, walking towards them, "I thought you might want it."

Anne stands up and walks over to meet him halfway, takes it from his hand and thanks him.

"Cromwell, can you stay here a moment?" Henry asks.

"Certainly, sir."

Anne slides her arms into the sleeves of her sweater, carefully. Henry stands and walks towards her and Cromwell, slowly, leaving the cane behind, resting upright against the armchair.  

Henry faces her, now ( _how does he know_ which direction she's standing, _is it a guess or_ …), and she glances down to see his forefinger and thumb pinching the end of the glove at his wrist.

"Can you please let me know," he continues, silkily, "if Miss Ormonde opens her eyes?"

"I…um…if she...?"

Cromwell stops stammering, sweeping his line of sight in between Henry and Anne, standing only slightly apart. His brow is crinkled, expression blank as he watches them, but by the way his shoulders tense, he's observing the two of them in what Anne judges as at least mild discomfort.

"That is," Henry says, worrying the end of the fabric, still, "if she's still so insistent on having me test the theory before we continue with--"

"I am," she says, closing her eyes.

"I, uh…will let you know, sir," she hears Cromwell say.

"Thank you."

Anne hears him step towards her, remains standing, very still, with bated breath.

The first touch is gentle, his hand, warm and dry, touches her left cheek. The pads of his fingers trace over the curve of the top. Then, she feels his other hand caress the other side of her face simultaneously.

"High cheekbones," he says, softly, "rounded. Clear skin, and," two fingers trace the bridge of her nose, from the space in between her eyebrows to the tip of it, "Greek shape here…are you Greek?"

"No," she says, smiling, and he traces the curve of her lower cheek, and murmurs, "dimples, I see."

Henry traces her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, slowly. _As someone might do before a kiss, or in between a series of them_ , and she hurriedly crosses that thought out of from her mind (or tries to, anyway). He runs the pads of his digits over her upper lip, over the line of it.

"Cupids bow. Supple, full…dry, though. You should drink water."

The inside of her mouth feels rather dry at the moment, too, so perhaps he's right.

"Your mouth is…asymmetrical, slightly."

" _Thanks_ ," she says, dryly, as he traces her jaw line.

"You have a square face. Very Rachel McAdams, if I recall…and it wasn't an insult, just an observation. And no one's face is perfectly symmetrical…although mine came pretty close."

_Good for you_.

" _Did_ it?" she says, instead, and also, coyly, because _really_ , "I wouldn't take you for a Rachel McAdams fan."

"I was lauded as 'the handsomest heir' by journalists, so by their observations, I assumed it was. And I wasn't, but girlfriends and my sisters forced me through the _Notebook_ like every other poor schmuck in America…you have a dimple on your chin, too…I imagine it's rather cute. Do you get compliments for it?"

"Sometimes."

Henry runs a finger over the bottom of her eyelashes, along her eyebrows.

"Thick brows, eyelashes…is your hair thick, too?"

"I guess you'll find out."

"Mmm. If that's alright."

"Of course," Anne says, coolly (this has to end, eventually, she hopes the casualness in her tone doesn't betray how much she wants to prolong the experience, it's…well. It's almost…surreal, in its eroticism, _it feels more erotic than anything that's ever happened_ to her, _even sex itself_ ).

She feels his hand smooth across the top of her head, stuttering and then still when it reaches the hair tie.

"May I?"

"Sure," she says, feels him ease it off. His hands slip through her hair, rearranging it around her shoulders.

She tries to keep her posture straight, her neck still; tries to keep from leaning to the side into his touch. Its soothing and she feels like she's melting, especially as she feels his fingers run against her scalp.

"Do you straighten your hair?" he asks, a touch of incredulity in his voice.

_How does he_ …

Her cheeks warm, she feels more exposed than ever, caught. As if he can see her in her bathroom this morning, the way she pulled her hair through the heat of the metal clamps carefully in the mirror. The way she took attention to her appearance. The link between that and knowing she'd see him in person, not realizing he was… _well_.

As if he could see her not wanting to admit to herself what that might mean as she got ready, outside of her usual routine.

Not wanting to admit to herself what that might mean, in this moment, as well.

"Yes…how can you tell?"

"The follicles on your scalp are square, which means you have natural curls. But your hair's in soft waves. What color is it?"

"Dark brown."

"Ah."

He slides his hands from her hair to the side of her face, slides them under the outline of her ears, observing aloud, "Delicate, detached," them under the straight sides of her face that run down, dips them under her jaw and cups his hand over the side of her neck (during this a shiver runs up her spine), once, before withdrawing it.

"You must be a waif," he says, "very swanlike, slender. A lovely curve to it."

"I wouldn't say waif," Anne says, dizziness setting in, feeling unanchored from the sudden absence of touch, she crosses her arms, again, "but slender, sure."

"I'm putting my gloves back on."

Anne squeezes her eyes, wincing.

"You can look, now," he says, and she does, her eyes readjusting to the light of the room.

Anne almost jumps out of her skin when she sees Cromwell standing nearby, his crossed arms matching hers, frowning, all but squirming on the spot. She had entirely forgotten that he was in the room.

"Was that…all?" he asks, clearing his throat.

"Yes," Henry says, hands in pockets, "thank you."

"Righ _t_ ," Cromwell says, tone clipped, emphasis on the consonant heavy and crisp, "let me know if you need anything else. I'll be in my office."

"Lovely," Henry reiterates after he leaves, "as I inferred. Now. That's done," he says, sweeping his arm towards the piano, "shall we?"

* * *

That night, Anne lies in bed, her quilt curled around her, her curled on her side.

She isn't able to fall asleep for hours. She touches her face with her own hand, and remembers the way his felt there.

* * *

**January 29, 2016**

Henry slides into the back of the car, sits and removes his hood from the top of his head. Pushes his cane into into its more portable form, places it over his lap.

His appearance doesn't startle Cromwell anymore, he's gotten used to it over the years. It's not really as bad as he seems to believe, either, and Cromwell's always wondered if his employer's abhorrence to it has more to do with the contrast of his physical appearance before the accident and what it is now.

Or perhaps it has more to do with the fact that he can't see his own reflection anymore.

He's had Cromwell describe it to him before, years ago, asked for blunt, vivid detail, which he had provided.

_I've asked to doctors to do the same_ , Henry had asked, voice broken, _but you're the only one I trust…to tell me the truth_.

"Any new developments I should be aware of, sir?" Cromwell asks, setting his tablet up on a portable keyboard and pulling up the app he uses to organize his agenda.

"They prescribed nitroglycerine," Henry answers, fingers tapping against his knee, "the cardiologist I was referred to was…concerned. I'm sure I'll be fine, though. Always am."

"Alright. We'll stop at the pharmacy, then."

"Go in for me?" he asks, quietly, head bent.

"Of course, sir. How was the appointment? And, if you don't mind me asking, what's the medication for, exactly?"

"It was fine. Vicaray studied the results of the electro-cardiogram I had last week. Asked if my heart had been racing, lately, and I told him it was," Henry says, pushing the button for the speaker above before buckling his seatbelt, "I'm supposed to take one if my heart…hurts, I think he said."

Piano music plays, and it sounds strangely familiar to… _oh_.

He's overheard this, before. This piece, played by his… _student_? Cromwell's not certain what she is, exactly, what to even call her beyond the formal and respectful 'Miss Ormonde', only that she's paid for her company and private performances.

That she's quite talented, and fiery, and that his employer's rare smiles happen most frequently on the days she's there.

"That's concerning. Has it been?" Cromwell asks,

"Racing, yes, hurting, no. He said it's a side effect."

"Still? I'd think that'd have occurred more recently to the...accident."

"That's what I said. He asked if there were any changes in my routine, if I had been exercising more strenuously, and I said no. Couldn't think of any. Can you?"

_I could think of one._

"No," Cromwell says, instead, taking the paper Henry passes him without turning his head and typing up the medication name and dose.

"Apparently I might experience angina…chest pain, that it's probably a result of the neurological and cardiac shock after…one is electrified," he says, with a self-deprecating laugh, "just lying in wait, I suppose."

Cromwell pushes the button that slides the screen between them and the driver, rattles off the address of the pharmacy, before closing it.

"Any emails?" Henry asks, leaning back in his seat.

"One from your sister--"

"Which?" he asks, closing his eyes, rubbing the side of a clenched jaw with his hand.

"Mary Rose. An invitation, to her eldest's birthday--"

"At her home, or elsewhere?"

"An outdoor venue, I believe, although--"

"Make a generic excuse. We've already sent a gift, no?"

"Alright. And yes, we have, but--"

"But what?"

"She's starting to get…heated. In her response to the…no's."

"Christ, I've placated her enough. I visited on Christmas. I don't know how she doesn't know to stop…asking. She knows what I'm comfortable with, what I'm not…pushiest creature on God's earth," he grumbles, his jaw clicks as he releases it, rubbing the side of his face with his hand, "I _swear_."

"Of course. She might," he says, voice strained, "end up coming by, though. And I know you don't want--"

"She won't. She's incredibly busy. I know she's the brain behind Suffolk Enterprises, Brandon's certainly never been adept with numbers...or, schooling in general, really. She might send _him_. But I can deal with him well enough."

Cromwell sighs, types out a note on his to-do list for the reply.

He's declined more invitations for his employer than he's accepted, enough so that he's certainly mastered the art of writing them.

But that doesn't mean he enjoys doing so.


	3. the stars are blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That the effects of lightning strikes were still somewhat of an enigma to the medical community, that the amount of survivors was so small that the study of them didn't even count as a sub-field. That, like the ocean, it was accepted that the unknowns outweighed the known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
> 
> Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
> 
> The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
> 
> Tonight I can write the saddest lines.  
> I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too." -- Pablo Neruda
> 
>  
> 
> il = the French word for "he" (pronounced 'eel')

**February 1, 2016, 4:00 PM**

"He touched…your face?"

"Yes, George," Anne says, rolling her eyes before taking a sip of her tea, "that's what I said."

George, her older brother, twists his barstool so that he faces her, eyebrows raised.

Anne's Music Theory textbook is out, opened on the surface of the bar. As is a copy of Bulfinch's mythology, but she hasn't read either since he came in and sat next to her.

At four in the afternoon, the bar-restaurant combo, _Lotus Eaters_ , is closed to all that are not siblings of the bartender on duty, Mary Ormonde.

It's a popular campus spot, adjacent to Orpheus University. They have live music on weekends, usually college bands, which tends to draw the crowds.

When Mary's working, she tends to attract crowds, too. Given that she has curves reminiscent of a Boticelli, a mouth that bears a striking resemblance to Scarlett Johansson's, and the soft, doe eyes of a 1940s ingénue, this, really, is a surprise to no one.

Before each shift, she slips her engagement ring, aquamarine and silver (handcrafted by her fiancée, Lissa Blount, herself) off her finger and moves it to a chain around her neck.

This assures that she may reap the benefits of the comments she receives from male patrons, varying on a wide spectrum from borderline to _very_ inappropriate, in the form of tips.

She puts her ring back on when her shift ends, and she and Lissa (who also puts her ring on a necklace during her shifts as a barista) laugh as they count out their cash at the end of the night over an open bottle of wine.

Mary, pencil tucked in her ear, small towel peeking out from the back pocket of her jeans, surveys the alcohol in stock, occasionally making notes on her clipboard when she happens upon an empty or nearly-empty bottle. [Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycrhIpd4ZWU) plays in the background from her portable speakers, hooked up to her iPod, a relief and salve to the Top 40 station she's constantly subjected to when the bar's open, as per her manager's rules.

"Christ," he says, slurping from the straw of his glass, filled with cubes of ice and soda, "what a move."

"It's not a 'move'," Anne snaps, doodling the shape of a treble clef in the margins of her notes, "he's _blind_ , remember? And he thought he knew what I looked like, and I didn't see how that was possible, and he didn't even want to, I was the one that pushed--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," George says, waving a hand, "just because he's _blind_ doesn't mean it's not a move. That's like…ist, Anne."

"'Ist'?"

"I don't _know_ the fucking word," he grouses, tapping a finger against the screen of his cell phone, "like…racist. Against blind people. What do you think, Mary?" he calls out.

"I think," Mary says, setting an empty bottle of Absolut onto the bar, "that you're dumb."

"Rude," he scoffs, "what, because I can't remember--"

"'Ableist', George," Mary says, gathering her flaxen curls and tying them into a braid, over her shoulder, "blindness isn't a race."

"Well, I know _that_ …whatever. I'm hung-over, so I couldn't think of the word…. don't _judge_ me."

"It's _four_ ," Anne says, narrowing her eyes, "how are you still--"

"I crashed a brunch this morning."

"Whose?" Mary asks.

"I don't…I don't _remember_ ," he scoffs, as if the question she posed was ridiculous, "it was at a hotel, I was walking home and I went inside to use the restroom--"

"Why?" Anne asks.

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to--"

"Coming back from a one night stand," Mary says, tilting her head to the side, "what else?"

"Bingo," he says, doing the click-finger-gun gesture before continuing, " _any_ ways… and then I walked outside and reception for blah, bottomless mimosas blah, and here we are," he says, pointing to his eyes, "why the fuck did you _think_ I was wearing sunglasses indoors, like, really…"

"Your very carefully cultivated air of insouciance," Anne drawls, plucking a wedge from the bowl of cut watermelon in front of her, "of course."

"Me asking for a ginger ale had nothing to do with that. And it was a _move_ ," George reiterates, "I stand by that. Mary? Back me up."

" _Mmm_ ," Mary says, sliding her notepad into the pocket of her apron, "possibly. I'd need to know more about the mysterious benefactor to be sure."

"And our dear sister," he says, glaring at the referred person as she reaches over his shoulder to slide a successful row in Candy Crush, "has been _tellingly_ close-lipped on that front."

"You have a leaf in your hair," Anne comments, pulling the kite-shaped piece of nature out of a tousled, dark wave, "honestly, George, get your shit together."

" _You_ get your shit together," he responds, and Mary rolls her eyes and walks away from the bar before he turns back to Anne and says, "you _cannot_ date a musician, Anne. They're _nightmares_."

" _Thanks_ ," she says, dryly, pointedly gesturing to her Music Theory textbook.

"Whatever, you know what I mean…and I meant _male_ musicians, thank you, they are ridiculous… _you_ remember what happened with Mark--"

"Smeaton, yes, we _all_ know what happened with Mark, you don't _need_ to tell us over and over again, _really_ \--"

"Biggest drama king I have _ever_ had the misfortune to encounter--"

"Oh my _God_ ," Anne groans, leaning forward, elbows resting against the bar as she massages her temples, "are you sure that's not _you_ , because I'm _pretty sure_ \--" 

"As if it's _unreasonable_ to ask your partner if they would consider a threesome!"

"You watch too many episodes of Sex and the City," Anne says, folding her hands together, "really, you _must_ if you think that's common to ask, because it's _not_ \--"

"And his response? 'I should have expected this, this is why I don't date bi men'-- like, it had _nothing_ to do with me being bi. I asked because I'm _me_ , not because I'm _bi_ … _honestly_ ," George says, rolling his neck until it crackles (Anne winces at the sound), "the _audacity_ …"

"And you thought a gay man would consider a threesome with a woman because…?"

"Some people are into voyeurism, you never know until you ask. And she thought he was cute! I thought he'd be flattered, regardless of his answer."

"Right. Well, I'm _not_ dating him," Anne reiterates, clicking the end of her highlighter, "and I think I learned my own lesson with Wyatt, besides."

"Oh, God, I almost forgot _the song_ …'Enna'. Really…that boy is _not_ subtle."

"That he is not," she says, pushing her saucer and cup aside, "although I still maintain it's _possible_ that maybe there _is_ a girl named--"

"Oh, no, no, my sweet summer child… _no_. _No one_ is named Enna. Enna is Anne backwards, you know it, I know it, he knows it, baby Jesus knows it. _Now_ ," George says, pulling her textbook away, drawing it back once with his hand before sliding it, shooting, across the surface of the bar, "stop pretending to study and stop _feeling guilty_ about not studying. I'm sure you've earned a break."

" _Athena_ wouldn't take a break," Anne says, but she acquiesces to his request nonetheless, pushes Bulfinch's Mythology in the same direction of her textbook.

"Well, _Athena's_ not getting her Master's in music therapy."

"True," she admits, resting her head against his shoulder.

 "Also, she turned women into spiders. _Clearly_ she had other problems."

* * *

**February 2, 2016, 1:00 AM**

Anne sits in her bed, laptop open and sitting on her lap. She shifts, slightly, tries to improve her posture by sitting up straight against the pillows pushed against the wall.

Moonlight streams through the window, illuminating a square on the comforter. Her bedside lamp is on, though at the dimmest setting possible (she had told herself she was going to go to bed _hours_ ago, _and yet_ …), a tall glass of water on a coaster under the lavender lampshade.

Her cat, Elle, is curled up next to her, on a pillow she's claimed as her own, _like she's queen of the goddamn universe_.

The chosen pillow is covered in a white pillowcase, _of course_ (Elle has the glossy black fur considered bad luck by the superstitious and _ill-informed_ , and always feels _particularly_ cuddly when Anne's wearing white, much like spaghetti sauce seems to feel _particularly_ adventurous on similar occasions).

"I have discovered," Anne announces, "something about myself."

Elle blinks at her with huge green eyes, either bemused or annoyed by this attempt at communication (it's always _one_ of those, Anne knows).

Anne stares at her computer screen, frowning at it, clicks through each open tab (credit card account one, two, three, internet provider account, her cell phone bill, her checking account, and a half-finished rough draft of an essay that's due for one of her classes) before turning back to Elle:

"And that discovery is this: I do not like..being...an adult."

Elle yawns, then stretches, before curling into a ball again.

"What do you think about _that_?"

The cat purrs, the edges of its small mouth curved into a small smile, eyes closed.

"Asshole," Anne mutters, closing every tab but the home page.

Her fingers linger over the keyboard until she moves her hand to the cursor, clicking on the search engine.

She begins to type:

> _lightning_

"Elle, tell me not to do this."

> _lightning strike_

"If I do this, it's all your fault."

> _lightning strike victims_

_Aaand_ … _enter_.

"Goddamn it, Elle."

* * *

One made and finished mug of hot cocoa and forty five minutes later, Anne closes the lid of her computer and knows a little bit more than she did before.

She read that strike victims could be blinded, that some became deaf or hard of hearing. There was a man who had, apparently, claimed to have regained his sight _after_ being struck, blind before it; but that seemed to have been proven a hoax.

That the effects of lightning strikes were still somewhat of an enigma to the medical community, that the amount of survivors was so small that the study of them didn't even count as a sub-field. That, like the ocean, it was accepted that the unknowns outweighed the known. 

Most people that were struck survived, ninety percent, a number that had surprised her.

Strike victims could suffer a number of side effects, and the words float through her mind as she tries to settle into bed: neurological damage, heart problems, chronic pain, mood swings, memory loss, depression, insomnia…

_Struck twice_ , that was what Henry had said, and Anne hadn't believed it to be possible.

It was not only _possible_ , but his number had been beat before:

> ["Roy Cleveland, a ranger at Shenandoah National Park, in Virginia, survived a record seven strikes between 1942 and 1977."](http://www.outsideonline.com/1925996/body-electric)

_Just lucky_ , he had said.

Henry's circumstances were [one in nine million](http://wncn.com/2016/01/12/odds-of-winning-powerball-jackpot-less-than-being-hit-by-lightning-twice/).

A statistic anomaly, not by virtue of being _alive_ after a strike (that in itself was common), but by virtue of being struck by lightning, twice, in just one lifetime.

Extraordinary, and extraordinarily ill-fated… _if you believed in that sort of thing, anyway_.

* * *

** Day 12 **

"Here," Henry says, sitting down next to her on the bench (not very close to her, practically on the other end, actually but it still startles her; the ease with which he moves around, the skill with which he judges motion and placement and surroundings, how he gauges distance with remarkable accuracy), "try the bridge like this, instead--"

His hand stills over the keyboard, hovering, and his eyes narrow before he sneezes.

Anne laughs, clapping her hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, did I do something _funny_?" he demands, sniffling, before sneezing again, this time into the cashmere-clad crook of his inner elbow.

"Is that…did that come from _you_?"

" _No_ ," he says, surly tone mismatching his expression, a soft smile accompanied with fluttering lashes, "you must be imagining--"

And then another sneeze, high-pitched, tinny and dainty in nature, into the crook of his elbow.

She bursts into giggles again, unable to help herself.

"This is supposed to be dusted twice, daily," Henry murmurs, running a hand over the wood of the piano, "is it not…?"

"Looks clean to me. And _bless you_ , sorry, I was distracted by--"

He sneezes, again. Rubs his nose, and she can see the tips of his ears, slightly pointed, brightening into a dusky pink.

"Oh my God. By _that_. Are you Tinkerbell?" she teases, [playing the intro chords from a song from Peter Pan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vedFNLD1VdU).

"No, Miss Ormonde," Henry says, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and covering his mouth and nose, "I am _not_ …are-- _tch!_   _You_?"

"You have the _cutest_ sneeze I have ever heard--"

"Don't be absurd--"

"It's like little bells! And you have the pixie ears, too," she remarks, "so, I just thought I'd check."

"Well, _don't_. And no, I don't. And do…do you…oh, my _God_ ," he says, practically jumping up from the chair, he walks, backwards, his hand reaches for and grasps the end of a mahogany table. Henry grips it, then steadies himself, appearing to have gained balance, before covering his mouth and nose with two gloved hands and sneezing into them.

"Please," Henry says, as she continues to play, "tell me you don't have a cat."

Anne pauses, looking up from the keyboard.

"I…might?"

The skin on the right side of his face is covered with spots of red, the tip of his nose matches the color of the splotches. His grey eyes, wide and watering, would be glaring at her, she believes, if he had the ability to focus them.

Even without that ability, he does an _incredibly_ stellar job of emoting in other ways. The way he tilts his head to the side in the present moment, for example, conveys disbelief and exasperation well enough. As does his strained, clearly fake smile.

"You're… allergic?" she ventures.

" _Noooo_ ," he drawls, emitting another tiny sneeze, wiping his nose with his sleeve, "this is how I _usually am_."

"Sorry. Should I get Cromwell? Do you need medicine or--"

"Nope, I'll just have to offer critique from over here. It'll pass."

* * *

 "The bridge sounds better…I'd mark the change, if I were you."

"I am," Anne says, making the note in pencil, "sorry, again."

"It's…fine. They have a name?"

"Mmm?" she asks, flipping to the beginning of the piece, reviewing the notes again.

"The cause of my discomfort. What's its name?"

" _Her_ name," Anne corrects, rearranging the pages in order, "is Elle."

"Like…the _initial_? The letter 'L'?"

" _No_ ," she gasps, affronted, "her name starts with an E."

"The French… _elle_?"

"Yes," Anne says, annoyance starting to grip her, she slides a paper clip over the pages and puts the stack into her folder, "so?"

"You named her…'she'?"

"No, I named her _Elle_."

"Which means 'she'."

" _So_?"

"Well," Henry says, shoulders trembling with laughter, then, waving a hand, "no, no, that's good, you're right. That way…she'll always know she's a girl," another wave of laughter breaks over the last word, he holds a hand to his stomach, wheezing, "shit, no sorry, I can't…I can't…"

"You're not funny."

"She won't forget. _You_ won't forget, either. It's brilliant, really. Brilliant move."

" _Goodbye_ , Henry," Anne says, haughtily, grabbing her purse from the floor.

"No, no…wait," he calls out, grabbing his cane from the table, he turns and follows the path she makes, from the living room through the kitchen, "I just want to know…are you going to keep this model, for any human children you might have and name?"

"Good _bye_!" she yells, again, pausing to swipe her jacket off the island and put it on.

"Because, I think you should know that if you name your son ' _Il_ '--"

"I'm never telling you anything," she hisses, buttoning her coat up from bottom to top, " _ever_ again--"

"You know, of _course_ , to keep track of the fact that he's a boy…people _might_ confuse the French pronoun for the sort of filling you can request for your sushi--"

"See you _tomorrow_!" Anne shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth for the echoing effect before turning around and walking towards the front doors.

"And that could be an _unfortunate_ mix-up! Miss Ormonde! Something to consider, just throwing that out there…"

* * *

** Day 18 **

"I already had Cromwell cancel this Sunday, by the way. So you don't need to worry about it. You can reschedule it, if you'd _like_ but…the salary will be the same this week, so."

Anne glances up from her sheets of paper. She's been sitting, cross-legged on the couch facing the armchair Henry sits in, adjacent to the fireplace.

His copy, in Braille, of the same poem (she emails them to Cromwell in advance, now, and he apparently owns a Braille printer) is on the rounded left arm of the chair, leveled against the flat surface of a hardcover book underneath it. 

"I wasn't… _worried,_ " she says, puzzled, rolling the word around in her mouth like it's one that doesn't fit there, and then, peevishly, "more _notice_ would be nice, though. I map my study schedule around this, you know."

"I'm…sorry," Henry stammers, the book starts to fall and she starts to get up to grab it but he does, first (must sense the motion somehow, or maybe just quicker reflexes), moves it to the couch cushion next to him, "I just assumed you'd have…plans."

"Why?"

"Do you actually…not know?" he asks, with a short laugh.

His head turns, slightly, to the right. He tugs at a lock of hair that curls out from behind his ear, movements jerky, marionette-like.

Anne actually feels accustomed to the mask, now, its inelasticity, but occasionally she can see his left facial features move underneath it. It's rare, but it's so sculpted to his face that despite the rather hard material of it, extreme twitches still come through.

"Know…what?"

"It's…the 14th?"

"Means nothing to… _oh_."

_It's February_.

"Oh," Anne says, lightly, "right. Valentine's…well, if _you_ have plans," she says, circling an empty margin with her pen, "that's fine. I understand, I…appreciate the pay anyways, of course. For the cancellation."

She continues to scratch, aimlessly, on the paper. The silence feels like an albatross until it becomes so unbearable that she clears her throat before speaking:

"So, anyways, I guess we should start…'tonight, I can write the sad--"

"Was that supposed to be a joke," Henry asks, quietly, "because I didn't really…find it funny. If it was."

Anne puts the paper back down on her knees, looks up at him.

He's…incredibly still, for once, face slack. His chin rests in his hand, elbow against the armrest, eyes closed.

"What would be…the joke?"

"The idea that I… _c'mon_ ," he goads, tapping two fingers, harshly, against the surface of his mask, "that I would have _Valentine's Day_ …plans, really."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Don't be cruel."

"I'm not… _okay_ ," Anne says, changing tact, grips the edges of the papers so hard that they crumple, "sure, I guess I don't know what you look like in…entirety, but…"

_Oh no, oh no oh no oh no…._

But no, he doesn't seem to have caught any possible innuendo ( _in entirety, as in everything_ , _as in ev-er-y-thing_ , _why_ is her brain _like this_ ), as his brow still appears relaxed, expression still ( _worryingly_ ) vague, so she soldiers on:

"Like, I can see _this,_ though," she says, gesturing to him, then, "I just…gestured to all of you, and _you can't see that_ , sorry, but…look. _You_ were the one that referenced Phantom. You know that character has groupies, fans…right? That the demographics of those are…pretty much _exclusively_ female?"

"I don't…what are you --"

"I'm saying that…it doesn't seem implausible to me for you to have a date. I don't think as many women…would take issue with a mask, or whatever, as you think. I don't think it'd be the deal-breaker you seem to assume it is. So, no, I wasn't 'joking'," she continues, running a hand (with a fair amount of tremor) through her curls, "or trying to be cruel, I just _didn't_ assume you _wouldn't_ for that reason…and frankly, I don't know what made you so certain I _did_ have plans, so…there."

"'So _there_ '?" he asks, incredulously, arms crossed, but _oh,_ the corner of his mouth is curving upwards, and she feels something that feels very much like relief wash over her at the sight.

"Yeah. But it's whatever," Anne says, "I'll…do laundry, study, boring stuff. Play on my poor man's Fazioli and cry--"

"On your _what_?"

"Poor man's Fazioli! _Any_ piano, that is not a Fazioli, is a poor man's Fazioli, but…I digress. Leave me to play on my sad mediocre piano, while I wish I could practice on yours," she says, heaving a dramatic sigh, "even though I have a piece on a grand piano that I'm due to best tested on on  _Monday_ , that is _fine_ \--"

"Miss Ormonde."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to come over on Sunday?"

"Would I…like to come over on…Sunday? Huh. Well…"

Anne shifts herself until she's lying down on the couch, denim-clad legs hanging over the side of the armchair, papers over her chest.

"You know, I _would_ ," she says, holding the paper above her to read, "do you still want me to read this or what, though, because--"

"Yes. Please."

"Great. Try _not_ to interrupt me this time…."

> _Tonight, I can write the saddest lines_
> 
> _Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance...._


	4. dream of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lots of love notes in your locker, then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the rating change! <3

** Day 19 **

They've worked out all the kinks in the piece she has to play for her exam tomorrow (Henry's last comment was 'brilliant', with no addendum, no 'however', gloved fingers intercrossing just south of his kneecaps, which is how Anne knows this). There is a pause, and she takes advantage of it, begins a F sharp minor scale with her right hand (the farthest from him, sitting to the left of her on the bench) and asks:

"Have you spent many holidays sitting at pianos?"  

"I have. I assume you have as well."

"Almost all of them-- I'm oft-requested at parties."

"I hope you charge. A person of your talent should."

"Not for family," she says, laughter laced in her words, "although maybe I should start. Did you?"

"Charge? No. Although sometimes I would be…'paid', in a _tacky_ sense, I suppose."

"On _Valentine's_ Day?" Anne teases, voice edging higher as she edges out into more dangerous territory _(personal, personal territory_ for a person of reclusiveness and reticence isn't usually a kind they acquiesce), fourth finger edging down on a G sharp to mirror it (an ascent versus a descent).

"Yes," he admits, quietly.

She watches peripherally as his left hand falls from its previous resting position to the corner of the bench (though she can't see what it does-- _dangle or grip_? the former seems unlikely, everything he does is exact, precise, there's nothing lackadaisical about him).

The volume implies the subject should be dropped and left where it stands, the upward tug of the corner of his mouth ( _a smirk!_ ) implies it wouldn't mind a push, so she takes a _50/50 shot_ and teases further:

"Lots of love notes in your locker, then?"

His laugh is so richly calming that she wants to stop playing, right there and then, to hear it fully (but won't; there's so much potential in the often hypnotic pull of music, its background can pry open the most closed souls and slamming the brakes on it can have the opposite effect); she flicks her gaze to the creases around his visible eye when he laughs and says:

"I went to a boarding school; we didn't have lockers. And it was all boys', but…I _did_ still get some notes, actually," he says, a note of surprise evident at the memory.

"So…you played to seduce?"

"On Valentine's Day, yes. It seemed opportune."

"What would you play?"

"Something in this key," Henry says, letting his left hand hover over the keys in front of him, "actually."

"You should play. _If_ you remember it, that is," she says, slowing her hand and grinning when her last remark hits its intended target (he scoffs).

"Memory isn't an issue for me."

"Then play. I'll give you room," Anne says, bracing the heel of her hand against the vinyl, sticky on her palm, as she eases off the bench, "one can learn by listening, too, no?"

"I'm sure you've heard it before. You've probably _played_ it before," he says, moving to the center of the bench, aligning silk-linen-capped elbows by his sides, "it wasn't exactly…a very _unique_ choice, on my part. Close your eyes, I need to--"

"I'm not even _looking_ at your hands, I'm sitting on the armchair here and looking at this flower arrangement, I don't--"

"Please?"

" _Fine_ ," she huffs, closing her lids-- it's a good thing the room is air-conditioned, or else she might risk an unintentional nap.

Anne folds her hands on the velvety blue lap of her dress (its scoop is low, a flattering cut and color that's cinched at her narrow waist-- Cromwell had asked if she was going somewhere after this, and she had responded with a defensive and heated 'no'… _there's nothing wrong with wanting to look nice on Valentine's Day, girls do it all the time, what-ev-er…_.), raptly attentive ( _Sunday school style_ , she thinks: the hands, the piano, the waiting, even the coldness reminds her of the days of childhood spent there) despite the cast darkness of shuteye.

She feels a tug of recognition at the opening chords, but doesn't recognize it fully until he starts to sing:

> [ _the world was on fire; no one could save me but you_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qwk4sBYfM0)
> 
> [ _it's strange what desire will make foolish people do…_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qwk4sBYfM0)

_Well._

Sleep is now the last thing on her mind…although tension she didn't even know she was holding has melted from her neck and shoulders, raptness still holds her _very_ much awake.

Henry's pristine tenor lacks neither warmth or vibrato. It is full, a heavily ripe pomegranate, sun-soaked and sitting in your palm. He wraps the ends of the verses in sweet head tones, and her thoughts splinter as it pulls her in, lulling her. Her thoughts, nimble deer wandering through the forest of her mind…

> He is unmasked. A delicate scar, thin as a piece of thread, curves from the outer edge of his eyebrow to his cheek. His naked hands are simply very pale, that is all, she laughs gently and gathers them in hers gingerly:
> 
> 'This was all?'
> 
> 'Miss Ormonde?'
> 
> She kisses the pads of his fingers, slow as honey. 

_what a wicked game you played, to make me feel this way_

> 'I feel…I feel…'
> 
> ' _How_ do you feel?' he asks, a crease forming above his nose.
> 
> 'How do _you_ feel?'
> 
>  'Tell me first.'
> 
> 'Can I show you?'
> 
> He nods, and she lowers his hands before turning so that she faces the other way on the bench, facing _him_ , one leg on either side of it.
> 
> She traces his features with her hands, a mirror of what he did to her on Cromwell's watch: his right cheek cupped in her palm, the left in her other.

_what a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you_

> 'You're blushing,' she says, pressing lightly against the new roses trapped in soft skin, 'was I, when you did this?'
> 
> His eyes are bright, framed by long lashes dark as soot; the grey brightness of them make her think of moonlit storm-clouds (or ones brightened by lightning, perhaps) as he answers:
> 
> 'Yes.' (the single word is rough, somewhere between a whisper and a rasp)
> 
> Anne drifts her hands away, runs the pads of her fingers over his upper lip and observes:
> 
> 'Your mouth is like velvet.'
> 
> 'Yours was like silk.'
> 
> 'You said it was dry.'
> 
> 'I lied.'

_what a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way_

> They're still on his mouth as he speaks, though only barely touching the lower line of his lower lip.
> 
> She withdraws them before leaning in, letting the tip of her nose brush his.
> 
> 'Kiss me,' she whispers, fiercely, hand on his chest, thumb brushing the naked hollow of his throat.
> 
> 'What if someone comes in?' he asks lowly, skin trembling under her touch.
> 
> 'What if…I don't care?'

_what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you_

> He is up from his seat like a shot, she is bewildered, turning, turning until both legs face the room, still seated on the vinyl bench, her dress pooling coolly around her knees.
> 
> He kneels, with great care, in front of her.
> 
> It is not the kind of kiss she meant, and this is _not_ the order (first, second, third base, but then…this is not baseball, it is some sort of feverishly lurid, lushly unfolding…story, she is not an elastically white ball meant to soar between grubby hands covered in leather mitts, but she may just have wings) of things, but a cold sweat collects between her closed knees and at the nape of her neck at the very _thought_ of a very different kind of first kiss coming before…he has even so much as kissed her cheek.
> 
> _Is it the taboo of it all?_
> 
> _Perhaps._
> 
> Or, maybe, it is something to do with the level way he slides both hands over the sides of her legs, slowly; until the heels of his hands reach the ends of them, till thumbs pressed over her hips.
> 
> The question is muffled, as he asks it with his forehead pressed against her sternum as she breathes heavily:
> 
> 'Do you _commonly_ forgo undergarments when you come to my house, Miss Ormonde?'
> 
> 'Only on occasion…why? Are you going to punish me for it?' she asks, lightly even as she feels lightness ebb away from her (as she becomes more and more, heavily present, an electric thrill running through her as she imagines _that possibility:_   _him, taking her over his lap, yanking her skirt up over her waist_ … ).
> 
> He pulls away from her waist, moving his hands to the front of her knees, cupped over the fabric of her dress:
> 
> 'No,' he says slowly, parting her knees gently with one hand, and tracing a whorl on her inner thigh, 'on the contrary: I'm going to reward you for it.'
> 
> Soft, lingering kisses ensue on the inside of her thighs; she can already feel herself start to spill forward (as he fists her skirts in his hands) like a bitten nectarine….and when the trail of kisses finally reaches its destination its outcome is…as fully sweet as the fruit itself.
> 
> She flutters against his parted mouth, he sweeps the bottom of his tongue delicately over the tip of her sex; it is reverential, it is her fingers gripping the dark masses of his hair, the tips pressing into his scalp, white heat like a dying star--

She gasps.

He stops playing, brow furrowed.

"Miss Ormonde? Are you alright?"

_Oh…my…God._

" _Yup_ ," Anne says, wincing at how shrill and strained her own voice sounds ( _stop panicking stop panicking he can't see your face, stop panick-i-ng_ ) and slapping her bicep, "there was just, ah…a mosquito in here. That was on…me."

"Really? I didn't hear--"

"How could you, there was music, I-- killed it," she says, weakly, standing up from the armchair onto foal-shaky legs, "I'm going to go…wash it off my arm, because…gross."

"Alright," Henry says, quickly putting his gloves back on (she jerks her gaze away as soon as she remembers to, only catches a flash of discoloration accidentally), "Cromwell should have some ointment for the bite in--"

"Thank you! Be right back!"

* * *

**February 14, 2016, 8:01 PM, _The Calliope_**

_A busy café at night is probably not…the best place to go, on Valentine's Day, when you are single but_ …Anne had felt too electric to sit at home after the session.

The only people in line were couples, and the only people at tables were couples except for…herself.

All she had managed was a quick stop at her apartment to refill the water bowl with fresh and cold water, and to top off the food bowl. Elle had drank from it, and then sat and stared at her as if she _knew._

 _I don't need your judgment right now_ , Anne had said, and Elle had left the kitchen with her tail in an arc, the picture of indifference.

So there she sits, on a wicker table outdoors, in the t-shirt and jeans she had changed into at home, her spine a curved bow against the back of her chair as she sips an iced jasmine tea.

"H _e-eeey,_ you!"

Anne turns to see _the only person who_ _has ever made a puka shell necklace look angelic_ ( _rather than douche_ y) bounding towards her in an apron: [Lissa Blount](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285510/chapters/16852615).

"Hi! Ah, I didn't know you had to work tonight, I'm sorry--"

"Don't be," Lissa says, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting down in it, "at least I'm on my lunch break now! More than halfway through."

"That's good! Better take that off though, or--"

"The vultures will descend," she finishes, making work on the ribbons on her back before pulling the apron over her blonde head, "true, true, true."

* * *

They descend into casual conversation as Lissa nibbles at an oat bar unearthed from the deep pocket of the apron hung over her chair. Anne asks her about what she got Mary for Valentine's Day and her eyes light up as she answers, gesturing effusively as she does.

After that the conversation meanders a bit, and Lissa checks her phone when Anne blurts:

"Is it okay if I ask…something weird?"

" _Always_ ," Lissa says, putting her phone down immediately and leaning forward in her chair, hazel eyes gleaming.

"Have you ever…"

Anne glances around, furtively-- there are no occupied tables _right_ by them, but there are some close to the back door whose own conversations she can easily overhear (but then, they're speaking in that obnoxiously loud, self-important, Los-Angeles-hipster way).

"…orgasmed--"

" _Nooo_ ," she interrupts, laughing and tilting her head dramatically, " _never_ , because _I'm_ a _straight_ person--"

"You didn't let me finish--"

" _Clearly_ ," she says, turning up the collar of her flannel shirt.

"I'm…that was _not_ the question, that was only _part_ \--"

"I know…I'm just being a dick. Continue."

"It was: have you _ever_ ," Anne says, turning to see if _some rando_ has popped up behind her chair in the meantime, " _y'know_ …sit…ting?"

Lissa leans back in her chair, squinting.

"What do you mean by…'sitting'?"

"I mean like--"

"On someone's face? Yes. On--"

" _No_ ," Anne groans, rubbing her temples, elbows digging into the wicker, "I mean--"

"On a vibrator? Yes. On--"

"No! Just…just sitting."

"Just sitting?"

"Just."

"No! Have _you_?" she asks, grinning.

" _Tch_ …no," Anne scoffs, slurping the remainders of her tea through a straw, "I just read…an article about it."

"Where? Is it like, hypnosis, or--"

"Yeah, it was in… _Glamour._ "

"I don't remember that one," Lissa says, wrinkling her nose and twirling a beachy wave around her finger, "are you sure it was _Glamour_?"

"I _thought_ so," she says, poking the straw through again, viciously, a fierce blush working its way up her face, "maybe not…"

"We have a subscription, so I'll have to check it again, sounds--"

"It might've been something else, I don't _know_ , maybe I read it in… _Cosmo_. Or _Elle_."  

"Or in _Anne_?"

Anne groans, this time with her mouth closed, covering her eyes with her hands and rubbing her forehead with them simultaneously.

" _What_?"

"It's…embarrassing…"

"It's _not_ embarrassing," Lissa says incredulously, "it's _amazing_ , is what it is--"

"Stop--"

"Hands-free orgasm? Revolutionary. You should teach a class or a workshop or something, women would pay to learn how to do _that_ \--"

"Oh, my _God_ \--"

"We could save _so_ much money on sex toys--"

"It only happened once! It's never happened before, I thought it was maybe…a thing that happened that people just never…talked about. Maybe."

"No, I've only heard about that in like…theory. There's hands-free orgasm hypnosis videos on like, YouTube but I'm pretty sure they're all…fake."

"Okay…well, maybe I just…imagined it."

"I think you would know. Were you literally just like, sitting somewhere chilling, or--"

"I was in…class," Anne lies, easily ( _wasn't that a thing? didn't guys sometimes get boners during class, randomly? she's never seen one during, thank God, but hasn't she's read that…somewhere?_ )

" _Erotica_ …class?"

"I don’t think that's a thing at _any_ college--"

"Shame. Sounds fun. No wonder I didn't go."

"I just…daydreamed. _Vividly_. And it…happened."

" _Wow_ ," Lissa says, chin in hand.

_Yeah…wow._

"Nooo," Lissa cries out when the alarm on her phone rings, "shit…my lunch is over. I gotta go."

"Yeah," Anne says, dazed, pushing her chair back so she can get up, "of course. I should head home, away."

"But, uh," she says, hurriedly tying her apron back on before she places a quick kiss to her forehead, "y'know…go, you!"


End file.
